cognitive_recalibration | For Thor (stopmjolnirtime)

For Thor (stopmjolnirtime)

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It’s not every day you get someone promising to beat down death’s door to rescue you from it, so please excuse Clint’s shocked, mooneyed face for the next several minutes.

He’s been living his life wrong, he decides, only slowly returning to chewing so that he doesn’t choke on the lump of pizza in his mouth. Why has he never gotten to know Thor outside of Avenging? The guy is beyond sincere and obviously a pretty great guy under the princely visage.

Maybe that’s because Clint Barton is not a good guy. He’s been doing his best to change that for years now but you don’t just clear a slate of evil deeds overnight. He honesty never may. Until a few moments ago, he’d been sure that the only person he honestly matters to was Tasha.

Phil’s gone after all.

Damn.

Damn, he doesn’t like feeling itchy like this. He decides it’s the dried blood and drops any other thought or reason for the sudden tingle.

“Uh. Wow. You know, that’s the coolest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

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In all honesty, Clint had been somewhat asleep for the medic. He blinked and missed the entire interaction and so waking up with the IV stand set up and Thor still beside him, the archer actually believes it was the Asgardian who had done it.

All right, Thor, he sees you!

The bump in liquids has already helped and the headache that had been building behind his eyes is starting to subside. He squints, and lifts a hand up to his forehead.

“What are you thanking me for?” he asks, shifting a little so it’s easier to look at the prince. “You saved me a thousand times tonight.”

"For calling. For allowing me to help you. For trusting me to do so." Thor knows he's not everyone's first call for medical help or evacuation. Something needs killing? That's when they call for him. When they need something broken, not when they need something mended. Not when the situation calls for delicacy.

Gently, Thor reaches up to smooth his hand through Clint's hair, warm palm settling on the nape of his neck much like he does for his brother, for his friends. "For knowing I will hide you without question and trusting me to watch your back while you are wounded. It is not an easy thing."

Know what’s not a terrible way to spend your time? Laying in Thor’s couch and getting your hair stroked. Yes. Clint is a strong and independent archer and yes, like so many of the Avengers, he’s been touch starved and abused since childhood. Clint is a little different though. He doesn’t shy away. He’s not the cat that sinks his teeth in when a hand comes close.

Would he normally just let Thor stroke his hair like this? Well, no. Normally he would not. But he’s too tired to put distance between them and besides, it’s nice.

Sue him!

“Hey now. You’re officially my first choice for medical emergencies and get away driving now, buddy.”

"And should you call? I swear to answer." With more concern and swiftness than he had this time. Truly, Clint reaching out while bleeding at all should've been cause to worry and-

He will ruminate over his failure to act quickly later. For now? Thor leans in, nudging his forehead against Clint's in a show of contrition and sincerity before standing to settle on the sofa, glad to have Clint here, safe and whole and recovering. "Until you feel it safe to return home? You have sanctuary here."

He'll do his best not to let on that he has company.

Clint holds his breath as that big blond head comes his way. He’s not sure what’s about to happen. Thor could head butt him (RIP archer) or kiss him (what does he know of Asgardian customs?!) and Clint had decided to just stay still rather than react.

He just blinks at the other, looking owlish, as he moves away. His breath is released in a haphazard grunt.

There had been something terribly intimate about the touch of their foreheads, but unlike Thor’s plan to attack the evening’s beginnings, Clint is going to put all of that from his mind.

Thor’s affection, while not exactly weird, is a little frightening. Maybe because Clint enjoyed jt.

“Uh,” he says and clears his throat, “thanks? I mean, thanks. I’ll get out of your hair in a few hours.”

"I'd rather you remain overnight. I remember rest is vital for recovering after an injury of this kind and will feel better knowing you've somewhere safe to do so." It won't be the first time he's sat watch for an injured ally, even if he's keeping watch for another ally.

Though he will make certain to text Natasha or have Clint text her eventually, to let her know he's safe. That will need doing.

Right now? Resting. Clint is breathing alive, and as safe as anyone could possibly be on Midgard, courtesy of Mjolnir on the coffee table and Thor himself tucked against his side.

You know what? When in Rome. Thor’s the one who initiated all of the nice, warm contact tonight and Clint is hurt! Okay, not exactly anymore but he needs to rest! There are no pillows handy, but Thor is there— What’s the literal worst that could happen? He drool on Thor’s thigh and Thor tells everyone and Tony makes a 3D animation of it and it somehow gets leaked to the entire world and Doctor Hawkthristrap stops following him on Twitter?

Exactly. Not that bad. With a scoot, and mindful of the IV, Clint transfers his head to Thor’s lap and closes his eyes.

“Overnight is only a few more hours,” he points out.

"To your mind, perhaps." Thor doesn't bat an eye at the shift in posture, tugging a throw blanket off the back of the sofa to drape over Clint, one warm, broad hand smoothing through his hair in even passes. Something to soothe, to steady, to offer comfort after having been so seriously injured. "But while it is Friday night to you- it was Saturday morning for me."

His logic is entirely sound, Clint, just roll with it.

"So I aim to keep you overnight until Sunday." Which will give Clint plenty of time to rest, eat, and relax in safety before having to face the firing squad of Natasha's pointed opinions about what is and isn't an appropriate time to ask for help.

Oh. Oh, all right. So now it’s Netflix and chill after a first date consisting of a magic rock and some pizza? Clint isn’t going to argue the blanket. He will argue, in a few hours, that he should at least be allowed to shower and put on non-bloody clothing. Unfortunately, he can’t argue now because he’s yawning a Mighty Yawn and that takes a lot of the fight out of him.

Huffing as if he’s not enjoying himself, Clint touches the place where the IV has been inserted into his elbow bend and almost closes his eyes again before they snap up towards the Asgardian.

“You guys don’t keep humans as pets right…?” Even if that kinda seems like a good existence in his exhaustion addled mind. “Not complaining about any of this but I want to make sure that you’re not equating mascot with pet..?”

Where he'd been smiling with great fondness and affection, languid and warm as the setting sun- that falls away into almost sorrowful sobriety. "...Clint."

The hand on Clint's scalp settles on his nape again, thumb ticking idly along the tendon where neck meets shoulder, Thor choosing his words with more care than he normally manages, due to the realization that something said in jest may have cut rather than provided levity. It wouldn't be the first time but-

He's trying to be better. "When I said you were our mascot- I was teasing. You are a valued and valuable member of our team, and a dear friend to me. I know modern midgardians are more...reserved with their fondness for one another, but I assure you; I am not treating you like this because I see you as lesser, fragile, or as a pet. I am...attempting to offer comfort to someone I care for."

“Oh.” Clint settles back in as if that explanation had been enough. He’s never known Thor to lie, never known him to be manipulative. If the guy says he cares for Clint and isn’t trying to recruit him to be a lapdog in the most literal sense of the word, he believes him.

The archer turns, setting his calloused hand over Thor’s knee. He’s plucked so many strings, held onto so many high wire swings and ropes, that this hand is all hardened skin and muscle. His eyes close again and he sighs.

“For the record, I do feel comforted. And I’m sorry that I’m not really good with the whole being cared about thing. Weird new concept,” he laughs softly.

"You have not had this kind of care. Most of us don't seem to...know what to do with this. Steve might be familiar, but he's also displaced and distressed by that. Stark is entirely unfamiliar to the point of being allergic. You and Natasha are far more accustomed to gestures of care being used to mask ill intentions. And Doctor Banner? Does not trust himself enough to accept such things easily." He's- not so unobservant as to not notice these details. He doesn't catch as much as Clint, perhaps, but he understands this.

He saw similar shades in Loki as they got older.

Not that he'll mention it but- he understands.

"I'm...learning to be better at showing that I care. It feels simpler in Asgard and I wish to be a better friend to you but- I am not certain how? But if you will accept this- this is how I intend to...show it."

“Knock yourself out,” Clint murmurs. It might be strange to accept this sort of thing when he’s feeling his best, when he’s not bundled up in a blanket and already well plied for affectionate touch. Then again, like an alley cat shown that being touched doesn’t have to hurt, he may very well come to crave Thor’s physical expression of appreciation and friendship.

He snores lightly as he drops deeply to sleep and stays that way for nearly six hours before his head jerks up.

Clint is momentarily unsure of where he is, or who he is with. His fingers walk across Thor’s knee before it dawns on him that he’s had an Asgardian pillow since prior to sunup.

He feels… good. There’s no hang over. No real feeling of aches anywhere either. “Huh,” he says, trying to sit up from under Thor’s heavy arm.

Thor, his hand settled comfortably, companionably on Clint's shoulder, is out cold. Friday will warn him should anyone attempt entry and he is a fairly light sleeper in most instances. But with someone he trusts warm, safe, and curled close? The Prince of the Aesir sleeps and sleeps deeply, limbs slung out loose and easy, head tilted back against the sofa, throat bared in the early morning light.

No tension in his shoulders, no furrow to his brow, only a token flexing of the palm on Clint's shoulder as he moves- languid and leonine before falling aside. He hadn't moved, content to remain and to remain on guard, Mjolnir resting lightly in his opposite palm.

The room's silent save the slow, deep pass of Thor's breathing, the thudding of his heart.

Surprised when his knees don’t even twinge with discomfort for kneeling on them, Clint contorts himself from out of Thor’s grasp and gently tucks the blond back into himself. He is careful with his movements, slow and focused as he is, and presses pillows or the blanket into the spots he’d left.

Clint isn’t going to run away. Thor will find him. But he will be hitting the head.

He glances down at himself in the bathroom. His shirt is undone, blood mostly wiped clean from him. He examines the jagged purple thread sewn into his skin on the side and washes his hands.

He could use a shower but he’d like Thor to be awake before he did.

The assassin creeps back over to the sleeping giant and purchases on the coffee table. For the moment, he’s content to watch him.

Deeply dreaming, the usual battles and revels of ages past sweep through his mind in comforting white noise- but it does not always remain so. There is the knowledge of inevitability tied to every moment his friends come into danger, an awareness that no matter how determined or stalwart his defense and protection of them-

One day he will not be fast enough, strong enough, and they will perish.

To bullet or blade, illness or age, and no matter how mighty Thor may be? This- simply must come to pass. There is no preventing it. In these early hours, Clint's blood still under his nails, the knowledge it was terribly close? Perhaps it was selfishness that had him request Clint remain. Reassurance that he wished for when his brow furrows and his dreams turn dark, breath caught in his chest.

Thor startles upright with a jolt, for a moment his blue eyes dark and agonized, brows pinched, hand outstretched to-

Clint.

Who is alive, well, and sitting on his coffee table.

"...Ah. You're- awake."

It’s confusing. For all that Thor has shown himself to be and all he confessed to him last night, Clint finds him oddly vulnerable in his sleep. He won’t dare ask what that dream had been about. They all have their traumas and Thor is allowed his.

“I am,” the archer says, knees up and legs crossed at the ankle in the middle of the table. “And you are too. Finally. I’ve been dying for some coffee but I wanted to ask first.”

He feels great. There’s no denying it. Sleep worked wonders on him. But that doesn’t alleviate the caffeine addiction.

“So one, can I make coffee? Two, do you want some? And three, can I rent you out once a week? You’re literally th best mattress on the market!”

"..." Still slightly haunted- Thor finishes reaching out, hand hooking around the nape of Clint's neck to squeeze gently. Feeling the warmth, the solidity of the archer. Alive and well, not bloodied and too cold, too still. "Ah- help yourself?"

Because he's hosting, so- coffee. Right. He remembers how to work the coffee machine.

Mostly due to the note tacked to the cupboard above it, but Thor takes the moment to rouse and collect himself as he consults the steps. Fill with water. Add filter. Add grounds. Insert. Press power. It's a little like his mother's teas but vastly different all the same. "If you need rest that badly, you can find me whenever you want. My bed is empty of late."

Did that sound forward? He can't quite tell.

It’s not the first time in the last few hours that Clint thought Thor to be making an advance. The feel of that hand on him is less terrifying and more intriguing. It’s a testament, he’s sure, of the recent blood loss.

Still, as Thor leads the couch, the archer slinks into his slot, pulling the blanket up.

“Why is it empty?” What happened to that annoying woman he thought be was when? Clint stops just short about asking about her directly.

Thor is- not sheepish when he speaks next, but a little less cheery. "Jane and I are no longer seeing one another, and have not been for some time."

And he has, perhaps, been a little...shy about going out and meeting new people. For one: Finding similar life experiences is difficult on Midgard for so many reasons, for another-

Jane was truly special. Brilliant, driven, compassionate, so full of life and intense focus- just any person wouldn't do after he was so fortunate as to have earned her favor. Even if he lost it- he doesn't begrudge her their parting. She wanted someone that would be there. That would remain by her side always- and she deserves that.

Aww, no. No. Clint’s face drops. “Damn it, Thor. I’m so sorry man. I didn’t know. She was really nice.” And boring. So bland. Clint keeps that to himself. Thor can do so much better! “You’ve just got to get back in the saddle! You’ve got what? Two whole Realms of ladies to try out?”

That sounds bad. Nat would kill him for being so sexist.

“I’ve been told I’m not a bad wing man if you wanna try an Earth girl again.”

"She was. We remain friendly, if not together." And he will remain forever grateful for that friendship, it could have been much worse. She could have died or they could hate each other and that'd be-

Just.

The worst.

"It's hard to find people with similar life experiences. Or- well. Jane wasn't ever..." He shrugs, gesturing to himself as he returns with two mugs of coffee. "Who and what I was never mattered to her. Anyone on Midgard sees me as Thor first. Well- Susan doesn't, but Susan is married. Anyone on Asgard sees me as a potential political partner rather than life partner."

“You don’t think who you are should matter? It’s sort of…. It’s part of you right? The person has to love all of it. Or they won’t be able to handle you flying off the save the day.”

The drip finishes in the coffee maker and Clint stands rather gracefully all things considered to pour himself, and Thor, a cup.

“Not for nothing though, I get it. You’re giant and cut and are probably a great lay. People want the avenger’s girlfriend tag I guess. How you do you take this? Too much sugar like me or are you a purist?”

"It is, but- I wish to be known and cared for as myself. Not a warrior, a prince, a hero, a fool." Because he is, quite often, very foolish. It's gotten him into just as much trouble as it's gotten him out of, really. "Or God of Thunder."

A beat, a quirked bow as he takes a sip of his black coffee. "And fertility. I am an amazing lay."

Because clearly that's the part that needs emphasizing.

“Well yeah, that’s probably no contest there,” Clint says, glancing Thor over. What? He’s not allowed to look? He has eyes! Maybe his gaze lingered a little but—

Clint pauses in his own mental rant and parts his lips for a moment. He looks confused.

“How many kids do you have then? I mean, we can probably spin it. Lots of women like kids…?”

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Aw clint, it's okay. You can have nice things.

Nice things don’t last!

he is a relatively indestructable nice thing! He'll last!

Damn. Solid points.

Sometimes he has them! Sometimes.

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Leonine is the best word ever for Thor

Him big lazy cat for all that he's a golden retreiver. Also: Assumed to be regal. Actually a goof.

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